The Huntsman's Amulet (10 page)

Chapter 14

A Truth Revealed

T
he palace’s façade was
long and three stories high. The lower two levels had large arched windows, while the top level had smaller square ones. A colonnaded portico concealed the entrance. Soren and Berengarius walked up the steps that led to the doorway to the Imperial Palace.

‘The palace was a statement of wealth, power and permanency. In the same way the Hall of Reflection at the College was intended to provoke a reaction among all who entered, the Imperial Palace was intended to send that message to all who laid eyes on it.’

It was certainly that. It was the most impressive building that Soren had ever seen, and it was difficult not to stop and stare at its proud and imposing magnificence.

Their heels clacked on marble floor as they walked. The hall was lined with columns that reached up to an ornately plastered ceiling high above. Dome shaped skylights filled the hall with light and busts on pedestals sat between each of the columns, which Soren took as being likenesses of the emperors. They continued through the hall and on into the next room.

‘This is the throne room. It’s where generations of emperors held their court and it’s where the fifty-seventh was killed, along with his family. Just there,’ Berengarius said, pointing to an innocuous spot on the floor.

‘Murdered by the sorcerers,’ Soren said, thinking aloud.

‘We were not sorcerers,’ Berengarius roared. His voice rose like a winter gale and blasted through the throne room, sounding as though it came from many different places at once.

His voice reverberated in Soren’s chest and ears and seemed to tug at his very essence. It was the first time Berengarius had shown any sign of bad temper, but his change in demeanour was insignificant compared to the way he had displayed his displeasure.

Soren didn’t know how to react. What happened could only mean that Berengarius was a mage, and to Soren that meant danger. His initial response was defensive and to reach for his sword; he was now very glad he’d turned back to get it that morning, but Berengarius showed no further signs of hostility.

The old man took a deep breath and calmed himself. ‘I apologise. That was uncalled for. I dislike the use of the word “sorcerer”. It carries with it many negative connotations, which are not appropriate. The term was used for a very specific type of mage and even then sparingly, but you weren’t to know that. Remember also that it is the victorious that write history, not the vanquished, and that victory in affairs as significant as those that followed the killing of the emperor rarely leaves one with clean hands.’

‘You are a mage then,’ Soren said, his hand still near to the hilt of his sword.

‘Yes, I don’t suppose that there’s any reason to deny it now, although I did not lie to you entirely. I was charged with the custody of the Library a very long time ago, but perhaps not in the role that I might have implied. There will be time to correct any misconceptions I may have created later. It will be easier if I explain everything in sequence.’

‘Why are you telling me all of this?’ Soren said, unable to ignore the question any longer.

‘To help you understand. Because you are a throwback to an era long passed and that must be difficult for you to comprehend. Because I and my kind bear some responsibility for that, even though so much time has passed.

‘So, where was I? Ah yes, Saludor the Fifty-Seventh. His death marked the start of the Mage Wars. We decided hereditary leadership was the cause of the Empire’s problems. Corruption, profligacy, incompetence, and dynastic wars were the characteristics of the later Empire. We knew we could do better, but not everyone agreed.

‘Perhaps we were arrogant, but there was no risk of a member of the Council seeking to establish their own dynasty, as the affinity to the Fount needed to shape magic renders men and women sterile. Unable to have children.’

Interesting, but Soren didn’t see what it had to do with him.

‘In order to learn to create a close enough affinity with the Fount, a mage had to begin his training at a very young age; no later than ten years old or so. It seemed like a reasonable price to pay for the power and longevity one gained,’ Berengarius said.

There was a grave, sympathetic tone to his voice, which puzzled Soren. ‘Could they not have had a family and then started their training later?’ Soren said, now realising the implication this might have for him.

‘No, that wasn’t possible; it would be too late to develop any real connection or skill, beyond the ability to conjure up base parlour tricks.

‘At some point before this all happened, I don’t know when exactly, some of the bannerets developed the ability to draw from the Fount on their own. Not all of them, you understand, but enough. You see, normal bannerets didn’t have the same limitation imposed on them that we did. They were simply recipients of the Fount, rather than conduits for it. They remained fertile. I believe exposure to the Fount caused an accumulation in them over the generations, with son following father into the ranks, eventually leading to those who were born with the ability to connect to the Fount. It was something that had never been experienced by mages as we could not, cannot have children. How were we to have known?

‘Indeed, we did in fact create the instruments of our destruction, as we had feared we might.’ Berengarius paused, and looked fatigued. ‘I’m sorry, Soren, but I’m very tired. I’m simply not used to speaking so much, or even walking about as much as we have today. We can continue tomorrow.’

Soren nodded, disappointed, realising that he was also exhausted. He had become accustomed to the constant headache, and was able to ignore it for the most part, but he’d only been awake for a few hours, not nearly long enough to explain why he was so tired.

‘In the meantime, I really do recommend you visit the dining hall. I know that your need for food is not as normal men’s, but I think you will be pleasantly surprised. The Fount is very weak here, but there are still some things that can be achieved with what there is.’

Intrigued, Soren went to the dining hall after they parted in the College’s front quadrangle. True to Berengarius’s words, there was a table at the head of the dining hall laden with platters of all sorts of food, hot and cold cuts of meat, fruits, vegetables, breads and desserts, a product of magic that Soren was too tired to consider. It wasn’t the massive buffet he would have found at the Academy, but there was certainly more than could be eaten by one person.

Despite feeling hungry, he had little appetite. That was unusual for him but he was too tired to want anything other than a bed, and his headache was making him feel nauseated again. He forced himself to eat a small meal, surprised at himself for having to do so. When he reached his bed, he didn’t have time for a single thought before falling asleep.

Chapter 15

The Test

T
hey met again early
in the morning. Soren had to drag himself out of bed once again, feeling as though he’d been pressed into the mattress. His first waking sensation was one of extreme hunger, despite having eaten the night before. He disliked the hollow feeling; it brought back too many bad memories. He went straight back to the dining hall after dressing and was greeted with a table full of food more suited to breakfast; entirely different to what had been on it the previous night. He ate well.

Berengarius appeared fresh and rested when Soren arrived at the Library, a little later than he had intended. They walked to the Hall of Reflection in silence and stopped once they got inside. Berengarius stood next to the pool, staring down at the still water. He had his back to Soren, who looked around, starting to feel impatient.

Without warning, Berengarius turned, twisting his right hand in the air as he did. A blinding streak of light flashed through the air toward Soren. He flinched as it hit, but it wasn’t solid and it passed over him. He felt a warm, tingling sensation as it did, and could hear the air sizzle. He took a deep breath, but as soon as the shock of the incident subsided he realised that the light had no effect on him.

Soren was about to demand an explanation for what he had done when Berengarius clenched his right fist and pulled it toward himself forcefully. Soren felt a strange tugging sensation, as though something was pulling at the very essence of his being. It reminded him of something from years before, a feeling he had experienced when fighting a shaman in the east. The feeling passed quickly though, and once again he felt no different, and seemed unaffected by the experience.

‘What in hells was that?’ Soren said, drawing his sword.

‘A test.’ Berengarius held up his hands defensively. ‘It confirms what I thought, but I needed to be sure. You can put your sword away. I’ve done all I needed to do.’

‘A test for what?’ Soren said.

‘The type of banneret born with the ability to connect to the Fount had unusually high resistance to magic,’ Berengarius said. ‘Magical attack in particular. We needed so much energy to affect them that the Fount around the Isles was completely drained. Even now, there’s barely any.’

‘What would have happened if I wasn’t born like that?’ Soren said, still too shocked to decide how to react, but dangerously close to cleaving Berengarius in two.

‘The light would probably have incinerated you. If it hadn’t, the second attack would have ripped whatever life remained from your body. I was certain the result would be as it was. There was never any real danger to you.’

Ferrata had been watching the docks every day. That he had arrived before the ship he was following came as something of a surprise, but it was a long voyage and there were many variables. Voorn had been cold, wet and grey since he arrived, and he was not in any way charmed by the city. The cold and the damp brought out a variety of aches and pains; old wounds and injuries reminding themselves to him.

It came as a relief when the
Honest Christophe
finally did arrive. He was eager to be gone from Voorn and back to the more clement weather in Ostia or Auracia, but patience was not so much a virtue as a necessity in his line of work. He continued to wait and to watch.

Nobody went far from the ship while she was being unloaded, but he didn’t see the face he was looking for on board or on the dockside. When the cargo was completely unloaded, the crew made their way into the city in twos and threes, but still there was no sign of the man he was waiting for. Once he felt he had satisfied the requirements of patience, Ferrata went to the ship for a closer look.

At first glance there was no one on board, but sailors tended to get all out of sorts when someone set foot on their ship without permission.

‘Ho there. Anyone on board?’ He waited for a reaction for a moment before vaulting over the bulwark and looking about.

‘Who are you?’

Ferrata turned to the source of the voice, a man who had just come out of the companionway beneath the poop deck.

‘Apologies,’ he said. ‘I did call out, but got no answer.’

The man glared at him, but said nothing.

‘I’m looking for a friend. I was given to understand that he would be arriving on the
Honest Christophe
.’

‘Who might your friend be? A sailor?’

‘No, a passenger. He’s an Ostian by the name of Soren.’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘
Honest Christophe
ain’t a passenger ship. You must have been told wrong.’

‘I don’t believe that I was,’ Ferrata said. He had seen Soren board the
Honest Christophe
with his own eyes, and had watched the ship sail out of the harbour in Auracia.

‘Ain’t no one called Soren on the
Christophe
. Didn’t bring any passengers into Voorn. Is there anything else you’re wanting?’

Ferrata smiled and tipped his hat, but felt his temper rise. ‘No, thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Good day.’

The sailor nodded, but said nothing more.

Voorn was not yet a dead end. There were other men who had sailed on board the
Honest Christophe
from Auracia, and they all had tongues.